


curtain rod

by alcibiades



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: IKEA, M/M, gratuitous references to Minneapolis, part of the Gnarp 5-piece kitchen utensil set
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-25
Updated: 2011-12-25
Packaged: 2018-02-13 06:08:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2139969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alcibiades/pseuds/alcibiades
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Eames's fault that they have to go to Ikea in the first place; incidentally, many of the things in Arthur's life which have ended up broken, misplaced, or otherwise destroyed, have been Eames's fault. And to be fair, Arthur has known this about Eames from the first moment that he laid eyes on him</p>
            </blockquote>





	curtain rod

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ladderax (allnuthatchforest)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/allnuthatchforest/gifts).



It's Eames's fault that they have to go to Ikea in the first place; incidentally, many of the things in Arthur's life which have ended up broken, misplaced, or otherwise destroyed, have been Eames's fault. And to be fair, Arthur has known this about Eames from the first moment that he laid eyes on him (Arthur had been nineteen and very full of himself, Eames twenty-three and likewise). When they were sizing each other up, Arthur looked at Eames's uniform tie, slightly askew, and thought to himself, _I bet you're the kind of person who breaks things and nobody cares, because you're so charming._ In that moment, he had vowed not to allow himself to fall under the same spell. 

Obviously, things didn't quite end up working out the way Arthur had planned. He justifies this to himself by reasoning that at least he's making Eames pay.

"I've never been to one of these places," Eames murmurs into Arthur's ear as they step through the sliding door. Both of them are dressed down for the day, in between jobs. They're taking a staycation; Eames laughed at Arthur when he called it that, but Arthur can't think of a more appropriate word for it, so staycation it is. And Arthur _would_ be wearing jeans, but the only pair of jeans he owns that he _really_ likes were a victim of the same accident that is their reason for being at Ikea in the first place. So instead he's wearing tan slacks and a plaid shirt, which is at least only half as ridiculous as the fact that Eames is wearing a t-shirt with nothing over it in the middle of a Minnesota November.

"I can't decide if I'm surprised, or not surprised," Arthur replies, sidling out of Eames's reach when Eames tries to slip an arm around his waist. "I can't really picture you furniture shopping."

"Certainly nowhere this… _suburban_ ," Eames says, glancing pointedly out the window at the Mall of America across the street. They came on a weeknight, and the parking lot is nearly empty, but the building itself is still embarrassingly monolithic.

"Ikea isn't suburban," Arthur counters. Eames reaches for him again, and Arthur lets him hook a finger through his belt loop for a moment before pulling away. "It's Swedish."

"Sweden has suburbs," Eames replies, giving Arthur a quizzical look almost identical to the matched set of quizzical looks a very blonde, Scandinavian-looking family of four is giving them as they pass. "Granted, I'm sure they're nowhere near as expansive and impressive a venture as your American suburbs - I'm not sure there is an equal for those anywhere in the _world_ \- but Sweden does have suburbs. Darling, what has gotten into you tonight?"

"I don't pretend to know what you mean by that," Arthur says archly, slipping past Eames and wandering over to a tiny room packed full of furniture and a poster of a woman joyously declaring that this is her 150-square-foot home or something ridiculous like that. He realizes he has no idea why they're even in the showroom. Maybe he's trying to make the most of Eames's Ikea virginity.

While he's busy contemplating the faux-highbrow Swedish books on the shelves - Arthur doesn't speak much Swedish but he's pretty sure _Pippi Longstocking_ is not actually considered worthwhile adult literature in Sweden - Eames sidles in behind him and presses against his back. After the disaster this resulted in last time, Arthur would have thought he'd had enough for a while, but apparently that line of thinking would be egregiously incorrect. "It rather brings back memories of the military," Eames purrs in Arthur's ear. "Doesn't it?"

He's obviously talking about the size of the place, which Arthur chooses to deliberately misunderstand. "If the military had this kind of design sense I think it would be a lot more welcoming," he says, elbowing Eames in the stomach as he replaces the book. The fact of the matter is that the only pleasant military-related memories Arthur has are of the elaborate jerk-off fantasies about Eames he used to come up with roughly three times a day (he was nineteen!), and the actual physical space of the barracks features in remarkably few of those. 

Eames gives an over-exaggerated 'oof' and holds his stomach. "Why are we even in the showroom?" Arthur asks, looking around. The blonde family wanders past them again, and Arthur could swear this time the mother and the older daughter are seriously giving him the stink-eye. "All we need is a curtain rod. Those are downstairs in the warehouse."

"We drove out here," Eames replies with a shrug, shouldering past Arthur, back out into the corridor. He's heading for the beds. _Oh god,_ Arthur thinks. "We may as well." He looks very deliberately at Arthur, and then down at the bed he's standing in front of, and raises an eyebrow.

"No," says Arthur, but Eames bellyflops onto the bed immediately, before the single syllable is even out of Arthur's mouth, moaning extravagantly.

 _What did I do to deserve this?_ Arthur thinks, gaping at him as he rolls around like something out of a Madonna video. "It's really quite comfortable, Arthur," Eames says, and Arthur amends his train of thought to _What did I do to deserve this incredibly hot sex-machine of a man-child boyfriend who thinks, at the age of thirty-four, that rolling around on a display bed like a pervert in front of at least five strangers is a good idea?_

"Get up." He grabs hold of Eames's ankle when it comes within reach, and Eames rolls onto his back, propping himself up on his elbows. 

"What is it?" he asks Arthur. He looks totally calm, like he makes an idiot out of himself humping beds in furniture stores every day. "Are you especially eager to get back home so we can break another curtain rod?"

"If that never happens again," Arthur says, "I'll be happy, actually. The curtain rod breaking, not the associated act, although the longer you stay there, the lower and lower your chances of ever participating in said associated act again become."

"I seem to recall you were quite vocal about not wanting it to stop, at the time," Eames replies, standing up and brushing his hands over his pants. "Your exact words --"

"Was that before or after you knocked the coffee table over?" Arthur hisses, grabbing Eames by the arm and dragging him off, far away from the beds and sofas and any kind of cushy surfaces which could be associated with fucking. "Because realistically you're lucky you didn't send me through the window."

"Arthur," Eames says. He sounds pleased, and when Arthur looks at him his expression is totally charmed. "Are you saying you think I have the strength to fuck you through a window? That's quite sweet of you, but I'm not sure --"

Arthur cuts him off by dragging him into a faux-kitchen -- it's all stainless steel and clean, light wood, and Arthur actually _really_ likes it, though it would be totally out of place in his Victorian-era apartment -- and grabbing a spatula out of the drying rack, studying it pointedly as though that was his intention in the first place. Arthur does not need a spatula. He has a lot of spatulas. In multiple colors. For a while they were giving them away as free gifts with any purchase at The Chef's Gallery in Stillwater, and there was this lava cake mix they had there that-- "Ah," Eames says, taking the spatula from Arthur. "Part of the Gnarp five-piece kitchen utensil set. I hate to tell you this, but I don't think we need another spatula, even if this one is quite inexpensive."

He fixes Arthur with that canny, knowing gaze, and Arthur murmurs, "fuck it," because he can't even successfully pretend to be genuinely irritated. He fists one hand in the fabric of Eames's t-shirt, flips the door to the fridge open - "Nutid S23" says the tag - so that no passers-by are going to accidentally get an eyeful, and hauls him in for a kiss. It's not a polite kiss, not the kind of kiss Arthur typically gives Eames in public, if you could even call Arthur deigning to allow Eames to kiss him in public 'typical,' given its rarity. It's sloppy and full of tongue, even though they're not touching anywhere else, other than Arthur's hand in Eames's shirt.

Eames changes that soon enough, though; he gets his hands on Arthur's hips, fingers slotting neatly against the bruises he left last time. Arthur jerks as Eames's thumb presses into one of them, and then Eames's hands are sliding around to cup his ass, lifting him. Arthur gets his arms behind him to help boost himself onto the countertop. There's a bruise on his tailbone, too, from when his ass unceremoniously hit the floor, and he's resting on the countertop just at the right angle to feel it every time he shifts. 

He doesn't mind. Not at all. Eames has always been fond of leaving marks, little reminders of his presence, on Arthur's body. It's not the kind of thing Arthur would ordinarily put up with, but that's essentially the story of his relationship with Eames, from start to finish. And Eames seems to have a way of doing these things to Arthur that makes him _like_ them where every precedent in the world suggests he should despise them. 

Eames is unbuttoning Arthur's pants; one of his hands has slid up inside Arthur's shirt, caressing ticklishly over his ribs. Eames is a fantastic kisser, and more than once he has managed to get Arthur to the point of squirming and moaning with that alone. Now, he seems to be a bit more hurried, though, and Arthur can't blame him, because there's the chance that somebody could flip that door closed and then they'd be excommunicated from the Ikea fold forever.

Eames has always liked that, though, and Arthur is generally willing to go along with the things Eames likes. He knows that there was a long time where Eames didn't get to do the things he liked. The same is true for Arthur, really, so he's acutely familiar with the feeling. And the things Eames likes are -- dragging his hot mouth along Arthur's stomach, looking up at Arthur through his lashes with that little indulgent smile on his face -- "Fuck, you're gorgeous, you know?" he says to Arthur.

Arthur smiles back at him. "Back at you," he says, and lifts his hips slightly so Eames can yank his pants and underwear down in one fell swoop. Eames's smirk goes wicked for a moment as he ducks his head, and Arthur has only a moment to consider the utter improbability of the fact that he's about to get sucked off in an Ikea showroom kitchen before that lovely, wet mouth is closing around him.

He arches his back and lets out a groan, his hand flying up to cover his mouth about two seconds too late. His head bangs back against the cupboards, but he barely notices any pain that might result; Eames is immediately pulling out all the stops. There's no teasing this time, just a certain single-mindedness Arthur has always loved. His heart is beating fast, and between the cocoon of pleasure wrapping him up and the nervous thrill of doing this in public, Arthur is sure he won't last long.

He doesn't; Eames looks up at him and catches his eyes just at the moment that Arthur looks down, and he gives this little groan, swallowing around Arthur, that's enough to make Arthur come faster than he has probably since he was nineteen. When he's finished, leaning his head back against the cabinet doors and panting, staring at nothing in particular, Eames pulls away.

He wipes his mouth and grins at Arthur. "I wish I could fuck you right here," he says. His voice is low, huskier even than usual. 

"Not in public," Arthur manages, dropping off the counter and pulling his jeans back up, putting himself back together. He catches a glimpse of himself in the cabinets across from them and smoothes his hair back. 

When he looks back at Eames, the forger has his eyebrow raised and an eloquently tragic look on his face. Arthur snorts. "Not _this_ public," he says. 

The grin comes back. Eames offers Arthur his hand, and after staring at it for a moment, Arthur takes it. "I'm sorry I broke your curtain rod," Eames murmurs.

"It's okay," Arthur replies. "You can buy me a new one and we'll be about square."

They start down toward the actual stockroom, where, of course, they can find the thing that they actually came here for in the first place. Eames shoots Arthur a look as they're walking through the little forest of cheap plants - Arthur bought Eames a cactus from Ikea, one time, to see if he could keep it alive - and says, glancing down at their joined hands, "Am I only allowed to do this when I've just given you an orgasm?"

Arthur blinks at him. "No," he says, slightly startled. "No, I just --" he shrugs. "I got so into the habit of keeping all my personal relationships secret from anybody that I forget I don't have to do it around normal people sometimes."

"Normal people," Eames repeats, bemused. He gives Arthur's hand a squeeze. "I was beginning to think perhaps you were ashamed of me."

"No," Arthur replies again, immediately. "At least, not of holding hands with you. The thing with the beds, on the other hand -"

"Ah, curtain rods," Eames cuts him off, giving him an enormous, crooked grin. 

They find their curtain rod, and take their lone purchase to the cashier. Arthur buys Eames an ice cream cone from the cafe and watches him eat it as they drive back toward the city. The sun is setting as they turn onto 35W, silhouetting the skyline. All the lights start to come on, slowly, and as Arthur shoots a look sidelong at Eames licking vanilla ice cream off his thumb, he lets himself think _home_ for the first time in a long while.


End file.
